


Set in Motion

by ivefoundmygoldfish (melonpanparade)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Gen, M/M, Pining, Teenlock, Winter Mystrade Exchange, public transport romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-07 00:08:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3153401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melonpanparade/pseuds/ivefoundmygoldfish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Through observation, Mycroft learns Gregory’s name, school, and year. When the bus driver slams the brakes one day, he learns the feel of Gregory in his arms, too. </p><p>Or, the one where Mycroft falls in love with Gregory on a bus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Set in Motion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rina996](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rina996/gifts).



> Written for the [Winter Mystrade Exchange](http://wintermystrade.tumblr.com/). The request was teen!lock, fluffy stuff, pining, and anything that ends up with sex on a desk. I hope 3 out of 4 isn't too bad!
> 
> For the purposes of the story, Mycroft and Sherlock attend a school that caters for both primary and secondary school on the same campus. Not sure if they exist in England (they do in Australia), though.

Their bus arrives in twenty minutes, and they’re _still_ lingering in the driveway as Mummy continues to drone on and on about safety—a pep talk they’ve heard a thousand times ever since Mummy and Daddy decided to have them enrol in school to make _friends._ Ghastly suggestion, that.

Sometimes Mycroft wishes he’d agreed to board at Eton or Harrow instead, yet he knows he’d never be able to leave Sherlock behind. In fact, that was the main reason he had suggested they attend the local school together, as it caters for both primary and secondary school on a shared campus. Unfortunately, such a choice means that he is subjected to Mummy’s fussing and clucking every morning, and the first day of the school year is always the worst.

“Be careful, boys. And Sherlock, what must you do when you need to cross the road?”

“Walk across it, obviously.”

“Sherlock...”

Mummy’s gaze is fixed on Sherlock, expectant, but he is more concerned with kicking a stray pebble across the driveway. When it comes to a halt, Sherlock inhales deeply and then releases his breath in a loud, huffy sigh. “I hold Mike’s hand.”

It’s a great weakness of his; still, Mycroft has always found himself incapable of doing nothing in the face of Sherlock’s quivering bottom lip. He wonders absently how much longer he has before Sherlock realises and begins to exploit it.  

“Mummy,” he begins, with every intention of negotiating a compromise. “As Sherlock is already _eight_ —”

“And eight months, and I’ll have you know I’m a genius at calculating velocity now, so I’ll be fine,” Sherlock interjects.

With the quivering bottom lip replaced by an arrogant declaration, Mycroft’s sympathy is quickly overcome by a rush of irritation and protectiveness, brought about by an unpleasant memory.

“A completely useless skill if you fail to look left and right before chasing after stray animals.”

“That only happened once, and it was a long time ago!”

“Which is one time too many. What if a car had come along?” he snaps back. His face is flushed and he struggles to temper his breathing.

“Your brother is right, Sherlock. You’re a smart boy; I know you can remember to be careful.”

“I said I’ll be fine.” This time Sherlock stamps his foot for good measure.

“Oh, Sherlock, I know.” Mummy reaches out to push Sherlock’s errant curls away from his eyes. “But mothers worry, you know.” She turns to Mycroft, and for a moment it looks as if she plans to do the same to his wavy hair, but she settles for straightening his already straightened tie instead. “I even worry about you, my sixteen year old baby. I just can’t believe you’re in sixth form already; it feels like it was just yesterday when you were learning your alphabet.”

“ _Mother._ _”_ Mummy titters behind her hand, knowing Mycroft only resorts to calling her as such when he’s exasperated, embarrassed, or both. “At this rate, we shall miss the bus.”

“And Mike doesn’t want to miss out on seeing his boyfriend, _Gregory_.” Sherlock emphasises each syllable of Gregory’s name, glaring at Mycroft. It’s a petty form of revenge, and judging by the look on his face, Sherlock knows it.

Mycroft scowls. “Shut up, Sherlock. And he’s not my boyfriend.”

Mummy doesn’t say anything; she doesn’t need to. The way she positively beams at him is indication enough of her intentions. It’s almost certain there will be a barrage of questions waiting for him when he comes back this afternoon. Or if he’s unlucky, Mummy will wait for Daddy to arrive from work, and it will become dinner conversation. Damn little brothers with big mouths. He doesn’t think he’s dreaded dinner so much ever since Sherlock stopped flinging his food across the table at him.

“Off with you two, now. It’s not good manners to keep your man waiting, Mycroft Holmes.”

Mycroft opens his mouth to argue, but Sherlock is already at the end of the driveway, yelling at him to hurry up. When they’re far enough for Mummy’s waving figure to become a speck in the far distance, Mycroft turns to Sherlock. 

“You will cease from telling Mummy blatant lies. We have never talked properly; therefore Gregory cannot be my friend _or_ boyfriend.”

“But you want him to be.”

Occasionally, Sherlock is more observant than Mycroft would like him to be, because there it is—the crux of the matter, the very thing that keeps Mycroft tossing and turning in his bed during the late hours of the night. 

They walk the rest of the way to the bus stop in silence.

 

* * *

 

It’s not like Mycroft goes out of his way to find out about Gregory. It’s in his nature to observe in quiet contemplation, interpreting details and body language, and before Mycroft knows it, he’s amassed a great amount of knowledge pertaining to Gregory.

He discerns Gregory’s school and year the first day Gregory steps onto the bus. The tie gives it away—the exact same tie Mycroft donned for the first time today, identifying him as a Lower Sixth student. And that’s how Mycroft remembers him—simply as the boy one year above him, with no name to match the face—until Tuesday Morning, that is.

Gregory rushes onto the bus just before the doors shut, panting heavily as he tucks his shirt in and pats down bed hair insistent on defying gravity. It’s the first time Mycroft has seen Gregory showing signs of a lie in, even if it appears unintentional, so he pays more notice than usual in an attempt to ascertain potential causes. He watches as Gregory sits down, and then becomes a flurry of papers in his struggle to complete his French homework, if the frenzied way he peruses his textbook and a sheaf of worksheets is any indication.

And then the defining moment of Tuesday Morning—the moment Mycroft has replayed over and over again in his mind ever since—happens. A handful of sheets fall to the ground, and the final one floats to a stop at Mycroft’s feet. Predictable, really, considering Gregory is sitting two seats in front of the seat he shares with Sherlock. Mycroft barely has time to compartmentalise the _tr_ _ès bien, Gregory!_ written in Monsieur Duval’s messy scrawl when he sees Gregory picking up the rest of the papers, and there is nothing, _nothing_ that could have prepared him for the way Gregory stops in front of him, looks him straight in the eye, and then _smiles._

Mycroft never finds out why Gregory woke up late that Tuesday morning, but he does find out how brilliant Gregory’s smile can be.

 

* * *

 

Other titbits of information aren’t so obvious, but Mycroft observes, he learns, and he files it away with care and precision in the little alcove he has carved out in his mind for Gregory.  

And somewhere between discovering Gregory’s support for Arsenal F.C., his devotion to the Adventures of Tintin, and his willingness to give up his seat for an elderly person or a pregnant lady, Mycroft realises he’s fallen in love.

But the thing is, in the whole year they’ve caught the same bus and attended the same school, they’ve never actually talked to each other—and ‘excuse me’ and ‘sorry’ and ‘thank you’ don’t count as proper conversations. Those instances are so few and far between that Mycroft can count the number of times they’ve occurred on one hand.

And, oh, he is loath to admit it, but he has given their first conversation a _lot_ of thought. He’s even taken steps—literal steps—to create a scenario which would be more conducive to meeting and conversing with Gregory, in a seemingly coincidental manner, of course.

Gregory’s bus stop is three stops after theirs—right after a newly built, modern playground, which boasts metal equipment painted in highlighter green and bright yellow, which is a stark difference from the dull colour of old wood. Within the past year, Mycroft and Sherlock have been to the playground thrice at Sherlock’s behest, and Mycroft’s hidden delight. However, the walk is long: fifteen minutes to their bus stop, plus another twenty to Gregory’s, and that’s with the shortcut through the trees. Mycroft’s only consolation for all the legwork involved was the chance to see Gregory, and perhaps strike up a conversation with him, yet each time he has left disappointed.

On the third time—which also coincided with the time Sherlock had got stuck on the top of the spider web—Sherlock deemed the equipment inferior to the playground closer to their house.

“This playground doesn’t have a pirate ship,” Sherlock had declared, and that was that. They never went back again.

Since then, Mycroft has resigned himself to observing Gregory from his seat on the bus, hoping and waiting and imagining. 

 

* * *

 

The bus is already quite packed when Sherlock and Mycroft get on; Mycroft ushers Sherlock into an empty aisle seat in towards the back half of the bus, and then stands close him, clutching onto the handle on the back of his chair. Most of the younger, new faces filling the seats are accompanied by one of their parents. While the majority of parents appear to be there to help familiarise their child with the bus stops and the route taken, there are a few who clearly find it difficult to let go, given their excessive fussing and clucking over their child. It reminds Mycroft of the morning’s events and a wave of fatigue crashes over him.

Staying up late the previous night most definitely contributes to his exhaustion, too, yet there was little he could do to curb his imagination once he considered the possibility of Gregory not catching the bus this year. Gregory is in Upper Sixth, and therefore he should continue catching the bus for another year, a meaningless assumption in the face of a change of address, or late enrolment into a sixth form college, or school activities requiring an early start—all circumstances over which Mycroft has no control, and all circumstances that would severely diminish his chance to converse with Gregory.

Not that he had any cause to worry, though. The green and yellow of the playground are visible soon enough, and when Gregory walks onto the bus, it feels like Gregory is purposefully walking towards him, _smiling._ And it feels like Tuesday Morning all over again, but this time Mycroft’s heart is threatening to beat its way out of his chest, and this time, he finds himself responding with a smile of his own. 

Until the driver slams on the brakes, and oh dear, there’s Gregory, warm and solid in his arms, grabbing onto his shoulders for stability, and Mycroft has absolutely no idea what to do.

“Shit, shit, shit. I am so sorry, Mike.”

Mycroft’s eyes widen. There are too many things to focus on at once: the loss of warmth once Gregory extracts himself from Mycroft, the flush high on Gregory’s cheeks and ears, and… Mike. _Mike._

“I’m not a creep, promise,” Gregory blurts out. “It’s ‘cause sometimes I overhear your little brother calling you Mike and, oh bloody hell, I’m spouting all this stuff about you and you don’t even know my name.”

“I’m not little, he does know your name, and I demand you stop your pitiful attempts at conducting small talk with Mycroft immediately,” Sherlock announces from his seat.

Amidst the commotion, Mycroft had completely forgotten about his presence.  

“Mycroft,” Gregory repeats slowly. A wide grin spreads across his face. “Sorry mister. You have my thanks, but no can do. So, Mycroft, I have it on good authority that you know my name?”

There’s no point in denying it, when he’s been so obviously found out. “At the risk of sounding like, as you said earlier, a creep, I do, Gregory.”

Mycroft watches carefully for any signs of disgust or fear, yet there is none to be found. Instead, Gregory is shaking his head, looking at him with something akin to amazement, amusement, and something else he can’t quite place.

“Gregory! No one calls me that except for my Nan and Monsieur Duval.”

“I apologise—”

“No, no, don’t. It’s fine. At least I know I’m not in trouble when you say it.” Gregory pauses for a moment. He tightens and loosens his grip on the seat handle. “Although I’m curious. How do you know?”

“The time you dropped your French homework,” Mycroft offers.  

“Of course. Although, that _was_ a long time ago. Had I known… no, never mind.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow.

“You know, this wasn’t exactly the way I imagined our first conversation would play out,” Greg admits sheepishly.

And before Mycroft can convince his brain to consider an appropriate response, “Nor I,” tumbles out of his mouth, revealing to Sherlock and Gregory more than he is willing to admit.  

“I’ll make sure this is your last conversation if you do not cease your embarrassing conversation immediately.”

Gregory chuckles. “I don’t want to take the risk. What do you say about taking a raincheck on our first conversation, Mycroft? Maybe on the way to your first class...”

“I have English in the Montgomery Room.”

“Great! I’ll walk you there, then.” Gregory chances a smug look at Sherlock. “Alone.”  

Sherlock glowers, Gregory laughs, and for the first time, Mycroft finally sees the sense in Mummy and Daddy’s decision to enrol them into school.

“That would be lovely, Gregory.”  


End file.
